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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story 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, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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