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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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