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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon 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 attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

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 type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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