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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. 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 conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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