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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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