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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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