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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'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. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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