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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences 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 endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins 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 seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several