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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for relatives running from the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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