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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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