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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, 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 child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, 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 international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several