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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 real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several