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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 real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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