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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, 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 celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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