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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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