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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. 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 live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, 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: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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