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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several