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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several