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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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