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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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