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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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 dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, 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 say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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