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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several