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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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