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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, 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