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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

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

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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