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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” 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