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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, 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 schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several