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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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