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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 proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, 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 young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth merit texts, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several