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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several