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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 entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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