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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 was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several