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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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