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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally 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 shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page 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 dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: security, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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