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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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