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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 learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell 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, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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