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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several