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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central 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.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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