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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, 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 the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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 parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several