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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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