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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who talked about becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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