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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins 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. The youth are entitled to books, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several