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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left 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 teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our reality: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several