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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 was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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