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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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