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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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