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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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