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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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 parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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