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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, 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 darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest 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 educational institution became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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