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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion 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 guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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