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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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