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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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