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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: security, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several