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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, 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 global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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