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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. 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 filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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