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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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