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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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