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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long 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 concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: security, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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