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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several