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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching 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 educator cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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