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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 real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, 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 learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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