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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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