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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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