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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several