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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 real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several