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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several