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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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