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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – 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 apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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