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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate 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 try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. 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 young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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