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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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