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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out 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 forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several