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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. 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 sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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