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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years 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 familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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