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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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