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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor 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 the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several