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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several