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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes 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 aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our existence: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several