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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 real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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