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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several