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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page 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 dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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