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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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