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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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 guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping 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 scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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