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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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