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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several