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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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