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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 entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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