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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor 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 expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several