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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several