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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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