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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several