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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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