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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

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, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school 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 assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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