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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, 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 global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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