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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

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

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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