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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our existence: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several