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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several