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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several