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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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