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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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