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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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