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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 listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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