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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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