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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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