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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

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

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several