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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several