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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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