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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several