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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several