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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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