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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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