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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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