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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside 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 favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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