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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several