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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several