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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to 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 express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region 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 my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several