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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out 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 forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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