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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. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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