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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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