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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

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

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several