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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several