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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 Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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