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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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