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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 learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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