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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several