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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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