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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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