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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 school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, 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 learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit books, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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