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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 entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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