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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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