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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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