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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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 mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several