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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. 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 it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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