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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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