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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First 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 multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

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

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several