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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several