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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes 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 dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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