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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating 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 entering the education field to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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