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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 favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed 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 dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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