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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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