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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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