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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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