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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate 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 courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several