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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several