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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, 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 stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several