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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 was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. 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 guardian of {three|several