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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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