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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. 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 preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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