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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, 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 remain.

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