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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several