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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several