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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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