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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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