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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, 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 envisioned entering the education field to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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