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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 proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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