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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

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

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several