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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. 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 without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally 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 used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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