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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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