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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

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

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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