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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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