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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several