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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several