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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several