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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes 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 envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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