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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes 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 struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several