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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 learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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