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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our lives: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several