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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several