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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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