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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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