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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, 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 families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several