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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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