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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several