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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak 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 bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several