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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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