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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, 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. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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