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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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