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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” 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