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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account 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?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: security, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several