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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, 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 express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several