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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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