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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 proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our existence: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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