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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes 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 help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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