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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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