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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means 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 death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several