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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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