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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. 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 cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

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 this refugee settlement 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 enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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