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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several