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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. 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 life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several