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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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