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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our lives: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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