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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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