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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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