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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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 mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. 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, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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