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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents 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 fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several