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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 learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. 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 previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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