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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit books, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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