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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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