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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several