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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 real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. 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 dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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