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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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