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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: security, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several