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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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