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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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