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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. 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 preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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