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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, 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 beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student 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 partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, 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, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several