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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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