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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several