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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every facet of our lives: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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