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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall 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 families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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