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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: security, residences, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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