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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several