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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several