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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education 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 dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several