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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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