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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several