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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, 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 poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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