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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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