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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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