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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 learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions 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 teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several