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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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