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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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