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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 real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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