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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: security, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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