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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 proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed 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 normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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