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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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