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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times 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 hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several