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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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