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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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