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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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