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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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