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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several