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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several