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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 entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded 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 ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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