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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several