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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several