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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil 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 Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education 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 caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several