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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, 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 are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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