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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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