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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 entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, 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 learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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