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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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