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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several