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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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