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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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