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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating 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 central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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