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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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