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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit books, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

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 kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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