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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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