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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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 dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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