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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several