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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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