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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several