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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently 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 purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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