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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several