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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit texts, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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