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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story 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, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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