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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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