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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching 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 sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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