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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, 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 it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several