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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several