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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several