'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.
A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter
It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.
I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.
Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.
Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.
At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.
I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.
When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.
Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.
To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.
'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.
An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza
I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.
Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.
I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.
Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.
My school became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.
Many of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.
Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.
Across the region, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.
A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several
