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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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