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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 proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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