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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion 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 live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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