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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. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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