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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. 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 the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page 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 live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes 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 recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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