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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: security, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several