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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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