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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; 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 Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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