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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 learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions 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 educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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