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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our reality: security, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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