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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several