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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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