By May Nabeel El-Dinee, teacher and professional trainer

Some children dream of becoming doctors, engineers or artists. But many children in Gaza only dream of having a real classroom; not a tent, not a dusty corner under a plastic cover, but a proper space with a desk, a board and a sense of safety.

In one of the displacement camps on the outskirts of the war-torn city, on a morning much like any other, 16-year-old Hala sits on an empty flour sack in a faded white tent. She holds her worn-out notebook with one hand and balances it on her knee with the other to write down what her teacher says – his voice barely audible over the roaring generator and street noise seeping through the thin fabric of the tent. Around her are more than 50 students – no desks, no visible whiteboard, not even a wall to lean on. Just heat, noise and dust in a space that has been metaphorically labeled a ‘school’.

UNESCO expressed its concern on the dramatic increase of attacks on schools on the International Day to Protect Education from Attack. In zones of war and displacement, education is forced to adapt to the bare minimum. In Gaza, classrooms are replaced by tents, blackboards by tarpaulin, and structured curricula by a patchwork of basics, aimed only at preventing complete educational collapse. The safe, structured environment essential to learning is replaced with fear, instability and deprivation.

As a teacher in one of the most devastated regions in the world, I have watched my students try to grasp moments of learning amidst rubble, trauma and loss. This is not just a story about lacking infrastructure. It is about the absence of dignity, stability and emotional security. It is about stolen childhoods, fragile systems and perseverance hanging by a thread of hope.

In one class session inside a tent, I had planned a learning activity that required group work. But there simply wasn’t enough space. We tried moving the lesson outside the tent for more room, but distractions around the shelter – noise, chaos and lack of boundaries – made it worse. That day, I realized that real learning is nearly impossible in tents. What remained was rote instruction, far from my educational philosophy. During a therapeutic drama activity, 16-year-old Fatima shared a monologue reflecting her frustration:

“I loved my old school. I had a desk. The classrooms were small but they were real. I had a desk. I had a board to write my dreams on and my teacher’s voice filled the room with warmth. Now I sit on the ground trying to hold my notebook steady on my numb legs. Pain in my knees lingers into the next day.”

They say: ‘Be patient, at least you are learning’. But is this really learning? We are in a dusty tent with no electricity, no ventilation, no doors to protect us from rain or wandering eyes. The chalkboard is torn leather. We share pens. There is no table to write on. No cold water to drink after long hours under the sun. In summer, we burn. In winter, we flood.  Still, we show up. We try. We study, hoping things will get better. But I want to scream: Tents are not schools!

‘Tents are not schools’ is not just a slogan. It’s a plea, a truth that demands action. Students in these conditions are not only deprived of stationery and seating. They are suffering deep psychological wounds. Many have lost their homes and families, teenagers bear adult responsibilities: fetching water, cooking over fire, caring for siblings, all while battling hunger, exhaustion and trauma, Yet, they show up to learn.

And teachers? We are the invisible front-liners, displaced ourselves, working without salaries, printing worksheets at our own expense, teaching in unbearable conditions, acting as educators, therapists, and social workers all at once. Still, from beneath the ruins, inspiring individual efforts rise. A teacher turns a tent into a space of hope, using drama to heal, storytelling to connect, blending STEM with art and humanity, and even integrating AI tools despite a lack of technology. These are acts of resistance.

But for how long? Has education really become a luxury we defer? Can we let the futures of these children depend on fragmented aid and unsustainable efforts? We need sustained humanitarian action, not temporary relief.

We need consistent partnerships between educational institutions and aid organizations. In many schools, projects have stopped without explanation, leaving overburdened teachers and desperate students in limbo.

We need structured psychosocial support, proper alternative learning centers, and ongoing teacher training tailored to this harsh reality. Most importantly, we need to recognize that education is not ink on paper. It is protection. It is healing. It is a right that must never be negotiable.

At the end of the day, none of these children chose to study in tents or to stand in long lines for bread or water. Yet they still come. They still dream.

So, will we fail them? Silence in the face of this reality is complicity. Tents may shelter pain, but they are not a homeland, and they should never become classrooms for children who deserve to dream, not just survive. A child should never have to choose between safety and education. A tent may block the sun, but it does not offer dignity. It may serve as temporary shelter, but it does not build a future.

If we accept that tents are ‘good enough’, then we are implicitly saying that their future is negotiable. And it is not. What we need is not charity, but justice. Not fleeting sympathy, but lasting action.  Because education under bombardment is not just a crisis. It is a call to conscience.