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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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