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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding 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 tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. 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 conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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