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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk 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 amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach 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 young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

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

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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