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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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