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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several