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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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