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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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