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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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