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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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