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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. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, 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 dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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