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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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 guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our lives: security, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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