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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – 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 courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. 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 homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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