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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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