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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak 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 in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, 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 keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several