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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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