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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 entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several