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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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