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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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