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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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