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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, 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 say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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