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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, 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 international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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