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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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