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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 proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several