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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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