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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several