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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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