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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 learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

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

I always thought education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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