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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several