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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several