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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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