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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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