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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, 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 schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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