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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several