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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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