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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several