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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, 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 it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit texts, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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