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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, 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 global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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