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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

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

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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