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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 entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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