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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 learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. 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 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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