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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several