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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, 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 stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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