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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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