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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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