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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several