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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. 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 tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve texts, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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