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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several