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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved 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 assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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