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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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