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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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