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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 was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several