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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, 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 a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several