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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page 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 reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several