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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – 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 believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several