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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza 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 the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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