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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. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long 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 went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children 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 damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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