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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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