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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 was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. 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 several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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