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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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