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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several