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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several