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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, 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 want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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