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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost 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: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our reality: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several