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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several