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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several