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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit literature, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several