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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 entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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