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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit texts, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several