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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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