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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several