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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several