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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers 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: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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