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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, 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. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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