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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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