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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, 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 small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several