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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion 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 live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, 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 endure.

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