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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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