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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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