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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth deserve literature, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement 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 mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several