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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several