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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine 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 without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who spoke of becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several