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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. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly 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 entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. 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 my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our existence: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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