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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to 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 global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

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

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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