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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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