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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several