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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account 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?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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