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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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