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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth deserve books, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several