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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar 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, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza 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 relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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