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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 stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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