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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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