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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. 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?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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