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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. 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 misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, 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 express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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