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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved 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 support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. 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. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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