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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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