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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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