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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 proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences 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. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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