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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 was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, 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 previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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