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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several