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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 stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several