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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. 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 online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several