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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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