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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 proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, 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 that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; 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 local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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