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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several