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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss 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. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire 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 scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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