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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

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

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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