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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First 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 used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several