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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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