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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several