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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, 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 say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit books, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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