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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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