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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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