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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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