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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 real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. 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 wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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