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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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