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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several