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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream 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 scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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