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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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