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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially 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 regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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