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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, 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 ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several