In Gaza City, the sound of children learning can be heard once again.
The tents that now serve as classrooms are noisy and a little chaotic but lively. Some teachers point to boards covered in English letters; others invite pupils to come forward and write basic Arabic words.
It is nowhere near a normal school day. But after the Israel-Hamas ceasefire in October, it's a start.
After two years of war, the hum of lessons and chatter of classmates resonates around the ruins of what was once Lulwa Abdel Wahab al-Qatami School, in the Tel al-Hawa neighbourhood in the south-western part of Gaza City.
It was hit in January 2024, and for months afterwards, its grounds served as a shelter for displaced families. Today, it is again a place of learning - albeit in a more basic form.
Walking in a straight line, their small arms resting on each other's shoulders, pupils smile as they head into the makeshift classrooms.
For many, this is the first return to routine and education since the war began.
According to Unicef, more than 97% of schools in Gaza were damaged or destroyed during the war. The IDF has made repeated claims that Hamas uses civilian infrastructure including schools to carry out operations but has rarely provided solid evidence.
Of the Strip's 658,000 school-aged children, most have had no formal education for nearly two years. During that time, many learned first-hand how hunger, displacement and death can shape their young lives. Now, something rare is emerging: a fragile glimpse of the childhoods they once knew.
Fourteen-year-old Naeem al-Asmaar used to attend this school before it was destroyed. He lost his mother in an Israeli air strike during the war.
It was the hardest thing I've ever been through, he says quietly.
Although he was displaced for months, Naeem's home in Gaza City survived. After the ceasefire, he returned with his family.
I missed being in school a lot, Naeem said adding that the difference is stark.
Before the war, school was in real classrooms, he remarked.
Now it's tents. We only study four subjects. There isn't enough space. The education is not the same - but being here matters. School fills all my time and I really needed that.
Rital Alaa Harb, a ninth-grade student who once studied here too, wants to become a dentist.
Displacement affected my education completely, she says. There was no time to study. No schools. I missed my friends so much - and I miss my old school.
The makeshift school is run by Unicef, combining children from the original Lulwa school and others displaced by the war.
It does not teach the full Palestinian curriculum; only the basics: Arabic, English, mathematics and science.
The principal, Dr Mohammed Saeed Schheiber, has worked in education for 24 years. He took over management of the site in mid-November.
We started with determination, he said, to compensate students for what they lost.
The school serves 1,100 boys and girls, operating in three shifts a day - boys attending on alternating days from girls. There are just 24 teachers.
Before the war, Dr Schheiber says, our students learned in fully equipped schools - science labs, computer labs, internet access, educational resources. All of that is gone.
There is no electricity here. No internet. And many children are struggling with trauma.
More than 100 students at the school lost one or both parents, had their homes destroyed, or witnessed killings during the war. Dr Schheiber notes that every student has been affected - directly or indirectly.
A counsellor now runs psychological support sessions, trying to help children process what they have endured.
Despite the effort, demand far exceeds capacity.
We have more than a thousand students here already, Dr Schheiber says, but only six classrooms per shift. There is a large displacement camp next to the school - many children want to enroll. We simply cannot take them.
Huda Bassam al-Dasouki, a mother of five displaced from southern Rimal, expresses the difficulties of education amidst such turmoil.
Even before the war, schools struggled with shortages. Now, basic supplies are unaffordable or unavailable.
A notebook that cost one shekel ($0.31; £0.23) before the war now costs five, she says. I have five children.
Some children have fallen four years behind, including time lost during the Covid pandemic.
My son can't read. He can't write. He doesn't know how to copy from the board, she laments.
Unicef insists that the situation is worsened by restrictions on aid supplies entering Gaza.
Jonathan Crickx, a Unicef spokesman, emphasizes the necessity of basic supplies like paper and pencils for the children.
We've been asking for these supplies to enter the Gaza Strip for a long time, but they haven't been allowed in, he says.
Despite the ceasefire, Israel's bombardment of Gaza continues, causing a sense of insecurity among the children and their families.
Yet, as Kholoud Habib, a teacher at the school puts it, Education is our foundation. As Palestinians, it is our capital. We lose homes. We lose money. We lose everything. But knowledge - knowledge is the one investment we can still give our children.
