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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several