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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly 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 beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several