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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several