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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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