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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 was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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