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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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