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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 entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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