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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. 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 reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit texts, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several