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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost 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 toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our reality: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education 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