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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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 guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several