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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 morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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