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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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