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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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