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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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