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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact 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 forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” 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