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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several