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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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