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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who talked about becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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