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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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