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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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