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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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