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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit texts, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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