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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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