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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into 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 favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long 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 beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, 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 live with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several