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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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