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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several