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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 proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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