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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several