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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 real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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