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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails 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 knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve literature, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several