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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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