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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, 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 education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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