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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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