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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping 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 piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several