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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 was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show 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 courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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