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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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