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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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