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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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