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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 was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit literature, schools and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several