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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. 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.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several