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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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