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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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