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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. 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 privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative 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, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several