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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk 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 courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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