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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; 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 damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our reality: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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