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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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