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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, 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 state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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