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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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