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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit books, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently 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 keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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