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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 learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several