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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, 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 story 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?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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