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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 entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several