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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – 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 education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

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

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several