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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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