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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. 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, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost 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 international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several