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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, 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 international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, 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 central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

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

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several