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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, 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 international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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