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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education 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 local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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