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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several