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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, 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 without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, 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 endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several