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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

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

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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