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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted 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 went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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