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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several