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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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