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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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