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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, 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, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several