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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally 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 regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

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

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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