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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 heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, 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 education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle 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 teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every facet of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several