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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 proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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