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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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