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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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