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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth 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.

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

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 another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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