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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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