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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative 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, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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