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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. 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 dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

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

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several