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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 was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit books, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, 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 shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several