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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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