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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my students are now dead – children who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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