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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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