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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several