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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate 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 in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several