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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 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 participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept 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 existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several