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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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