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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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