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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several