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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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