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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several