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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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