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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, 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 fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several