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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several