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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, residences, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several