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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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