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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. 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. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, 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: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, schools and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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