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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several