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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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