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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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