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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. 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 last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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