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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

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

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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