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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, 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 digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, 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 learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several