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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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