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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several