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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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