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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several