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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several