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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. 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 without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our lives: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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