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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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