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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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