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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several