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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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