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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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