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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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