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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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