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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth 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 scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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