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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several