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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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