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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 real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our lives: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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