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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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